by Elisa Braden
“I didn’t betray you.”
“Anne Huxley is still alive. Somebody warned her about the man I sent.”
“N-not I. Ye’re my brother. I love you,” she whispered, watching blood seep down the column of MacPherson’s neck. Wait. Had his breathing quickened?
“Love is not required. Loyalty, however, must be given in full measure.” Kenneth withdrew a pistol from inside his coat. He aimed it at MacPherson’s chest.
Sheer horror drained the blood from her head. A deep gasp sent knives slicing through her abdomen. “No!” She flew into the gap between the two men just as MacPherson reared up and, roaring like a beast, withdrew a blade from inside his boot.
She couldn’t stop her momentum. She collided with MacPherson’s arm just as he readied to throw his blade at Kenneth. Another roar sounded as the knife flew wide, grazing Kenneth’s arm.
Darkness swarmed her vision as she struggled to breathe. A massive arm banded across her throat, drawing her back against a warm, heaving stone wall. His hand cradled half her head.
“Where is Kate?” MacPherson demanded. “I swear to Christ, Lockhart, if ye dinnae tell me where she is, I’ll snap this one’s neck.”
Sabella could have told him Kenneth valued his goals far more than her life, but she couldn’t breathe properly. MacPherson’s grip was surprisingly gentle, but the collision and the pain in her ribs had flattened her lungs. Dimly, she heard the man shouting, “Tell me where she is!”
“Nowhere ye’ll ever find her,” Kenneth snarled, cradling his wounded arm. “Nobody will find her. But I shall so enjoy watching the hunt.”
MacPherson’s arm flexed as he maneuvered her sideways. The motion twisted her ribs, making her cry out. Stars floated in her vision.
His hands loosened as she sagged into him. “What the devil is wrong with ye, woman?”
Blackness rushed in when his arms caught her waist.
Pain exploded. She screamed, a puny wail without the force of breath behind it. Hard hands grasped her arms instead, turning her into the sofa and lowering her down.
The next thing she heard was a crack. Deafening. Resounding.
Watery light swirled as her gorge rose.
Red bloomed on MacPherson’s broad back. One of the strongest men she’d ever seen staggered forward. Bent at the knees. And crashed to the floor.
Kenneth stood above him with a chilling smile and a smoking pistol in his hand.
Broderick returned to the house in Buccleuch to find Sergeant Neil Munro waiting for him.
“Bluidy hell, man. Dinnae ye have aught that’s useful to do?”
The constable glowered at Broderick, but when Campbell dismounted, he backed up a step. “I need yer help, MacPherson.”
“Ask somebody ye didnae try to send back to prison.” He handed his mount to the stable lad with an order to send Connor to him at once.
Munro trailed them inside. “Lockhart has somethin’ big planned.”
Campbell grunted. “Keen work, Sergeant. A wee bairn could have told us that much.”
“He means to flee Scotland, mayhap by ship.”
In the entrance hall, Broderick paused, listening for Kate’s voice. Nothing. Where was she?
“Saw trunks bein’ loaded from his house into a cart yesterday,” Munro continued, following them into the kitchen. “Day before that, a physician visited. I suspect ’twas for Miss Lockhart.”
While a kitchen maid poured them cups of cider, Broderick snagged one of the lads carrying kindling from the garden. “Fetch Mrs. MacPherson.”
“She’s gone, sir. Left this mornin’.”
Frowning, Broderick snapped, “Gone where?”
The boy tugged his collar. “Dinnae ken, sir. They took the coach.”
Connor entered through the scullery. “Ye wished to see me?”
“Where did my wife go? And why arenae ye with her?”
“She went with Rannoch and Alexander. They didnae ask me to come.” Connor lifted his cap and scratched his head. The young man looked bone-weary. He’d been manning the night watch of late.
“Were they takin’ her shopping?” He’d thought she’d done all she wished on their Princes Street excursion. “Or mayhap for a visit with Lord Teversham?”
“All I ken is Alexander rousted me from my bed to help Jack Murray prepare the coach. He didnae say where they were headed.”
Broderick questioned him further but learned nothing useful. He sent Connor back to the stable and the lad to fetch Kate’s maid then turned back to Munro. “Tell me what ye suspect.”
There was a chance Munro was working for Lockhart and that he’d come here to lure Broderick into a trap. But the more he and his brothers had watched the constable, the less likely it seemed. Munro had spent most of his time in Edinburgh doing the same thing they’d been doing—watching Lockhart and his sister from a distance, waiting for the adder to slither from his nest. Besides which, Munro had met with Sabella at least twice. Broderick happened to know Sabella’s true alliances.
Now, Munro straightened his shoulders. “I came here to find Lockhart, to return him to the jail.”
Campbell finished off his cider and clapped the cup onto the table. “Ye mean so he might wait a few more days in his bluidy royal chamber before he’s released by the judge on his payroll.”
The constable’s whiskers bristled. “I didnae ken anythin’ about that. My job is to find the prisoner and return him—”
“Yer job,” Broderick snapped, “is to keep rabid animals in their cages so they dinnae terrorize the countryside. So far, Sergeant, yer performance is shite.”
“Perhaps if ye bluidy MacPhersons didnae crack open the cages—”
“Just tell me what ye ken.”
He appeared to bite down on his hatred. “Three days ago, I saw Lockhart’s man—one of Gordon’s auld contacts from his days in Glasgow—carryin’ Miss Lockhart into the house in Charlotte Square. She looked … in a bad way.” The constable rolled his shoulders and raised his chin. “Limp. White. Thought at first she might be dead, as he carried her over his shoulder, but I heard her moanin’.”
This seemed to disturb the constable greatly. The man’s fists kept clenching by his sides until he finally clasped them at his back. “Nae lady should be treated thus. Particularly Miss Lockhart.” Munro cleared his throat. “I saw the same man deliver a physician to the house the next day, and the day after, he was loadin’ crates and trunks into a cart.”
“Did you follow him?”
“He didnae take the cart anywhere, but aye. I followed him to a house in Queen Street. He gave a package to the woman there.”
Broderick met Campbell’s gaze as understanding passed between them. “Cecilia Hamilton.”
“I’ve a suspicion Lockhart’s been stayin’ in that house, though I havenae seen him directly.”
Broderick had suspected the same, particularly after he’d seen Cecilia at the Second Circle Club. “Likely it’s one of several places he’s been stayin’. We’ve also spotted his man visiting a storehouse in Leith.”
Munro nodded. “That’s why I suspect he means to bolt. Reportedly, he has resources in Amsterdam.”
Bloody hell. Broderick hadn’t known about Amsterdam. Cutting off Lockhart’s club funds and blackmail schemes would do little good if he had access to a new reserve on the Continent.
“Three ships depart for Amsterdam in the next seven days,” Munro continued. “I cannae search them all myself, nor watch his house round the clock. Ye have men. Ye want Lockhart found as badly as I do. I’m askin’ for yer help.”
“Mighty desperate, eh? Not so long ago, ye were bent on provin’ I’d murdered the bugger. Now ye want my help to find him.”
Munro’s fist landed on the table, rattling their cider cups. “Damn ye, man! Miss Lockhart hasnae sent word in days! She might be injured. Or worse. This is nae time for grudges.”
Broderick arched a brow at Campbell, who l
ooked equally surprised. Sabella Lockhart had been even more subversive than they’d thought.
Just then, Janet entered. “Ye rang, sir?” Her eyes narrowed on the constable. “What is Sergeant Whiskers doin’ here?”
“Never mind him. Where is Kate?”
She blinked. “She—she hasnae returned?” Glancing out the kitchen window at the swiftly falling darkness, the maid swallowed. “I expected her before ye arrived home, sir. I was stitchin’ another of her shifts, which do have the strangest habit of gettin’ torn, by the by, and I lost track of time.”
The darkness outside was nothing compared with the looming, thunderous unease inside him. “Answer my question. Where did she go?”
The maid hesitated, eyeing first Campbell then Broderick.
“Janet!”
“They meant to start at the orphan hospital. ’Tis where she suspected Miss Cuthbert might seek help after leavin’ the Bridewell.”
The maid might as well have brained him with the iron pan hanging beside the hearth. His bewilderment must have shown, because Janet rushed to explain, “She wished to return yer friend to ye, Mr. MacPherson. She loves ye that much.”
His throat closed, his chest squeezing. Magdalene was dead. She’d been murdered by Gordon’s men. Hadn’t she? He looked to Campbell, whose expression was oddly sheepish.
“We didnae want to tell ye, brother. In case it werenae true.” Campbell grimaced. “No sense losin’ her twice.”
Briefly, Campbell explained why they’d been misled about the woman attacked by Gordon’s men and how Kate had been the reason they’d bothered to retread old ground in the first place.
By God, he wanted his wife. Needed to hold her. Thank her.
Even if Magdalene could not be found, the fact that Kate had gone to such lengths to search for her was … well, it was just what Kate would do, wasn’t it? Restore a man’s soul and ask nothing in return.
“Rannoch and Alexander are with her,” Campbell said, frowning at the clock on the sideboard. “But they should have returned by now. I told them we’d be gone ’til four. ’Tis half-past.”
A queasy sensation struck him, passing from his middle out, turning his skin clammy. He hadn’t felt this way since the Bridewell.
A clatter arose from the direction of the entrance hall. He heard Rannoch’s voice, but it sounded urgent. Winded.
At once, they all rushed toward the sounds.
Ah, God. No.
“Janet!” Rannoch snapped as he and Connor hauled a blood-soaked Alexander between them. “Boil water. We need bandages. Thread and needle. Go. Now!”
While Connor left to fetch a surgeon, Broderick and Campbell helped carry Alexander upstairs. Only after they’d settled him in his bed and cut away his bloody clothes did Broderick notice the two women who had also entered the room behind them.
One was a bonnie blonde with leaf-green eyes. Sabella looked like death, her lips bloodless, her arms wrapped around her torso, her eyes fixed upon Alexander. She swayed in place, her gown obscenely soaked in blood.
Beside her was a much plainer woman. A beloved friend. Someone he’d thought dead.
“Miss Cuthbert?” he breathed.
She smiled. Warm gray eyes filled with tears. “Mr. MacPherson,” she choked.
He knew she didn’t like to be touched—such a chaste, tidy woman—but he gathered her up in his arms anyway. “Ah, lass. I’ve never been so glad to see someone breathin’.”
She patted his arms and shoulders then swiped a knuckle beneath each eye. “We must do this later. Yer brother needs me now.” With brisk efficiency, Magdalene Cuthbert took charge. She ordered everyone about in her soft, calming voice, commanding a maid to boil a pair of tongs, Rannoch to bring her the strongest spirits he could find, Janet to tear more sheets into bandages, and Campbell to lift Alexander’s slack body so she could remove the rest of his clothing.
Broderick hadn’t felt the rage rise until he saw his brother’s wound, stanched by wads of blood-soaked cloth, exposed. The hole, located high in Alexander’s chest, overflowed with more blood. He heard a gasp from the doorway.
Sabella had slumped against the casing. Munro braced her elbows, a fatherly frown on his whiskered face.
Broderick stalked to where they stood, though Sabella kept her gaze fastened to the bed. “Miss Lockhart.” Nothing. “Sabella.” He took her blood-smeared hand in his.
She jolted. Looked at him with lost eyes. “I—I never meant … Kenneth … the pistol.”
Dark rage surged higher. Broderick forced it down. “Aye. Where is yer brother, lass? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He left after …” Her eyes strayed to the bed.
“Where is my wife, Sabella?” He shook her, causing a moan.
Munro bristled, shoving him back. “Mind yerself, MacPherson.”
Rannoch approached. “I’m so bluidy sorry, brother.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I lost her.”
Broderick’s stomach lurched until he wanted to vomit. There was only one “her” who was missing.
Rannoch explained how the coach had disappeared from the orphan hospital. How he’d scrambled to find a hack in that part of the city. How he and Magdalene had searched for Kate and Alexander in vain until he’d decided to seek out the adder in its nest. They’d gone to Charlotte Square and found Sabella frantically pressing a linen tablecloth into Alexander’s wound.
“The lass was out of her head,” Rannoch murmured. “I couldnae get answers from her.”
Broderick would. He moved to Sabella. “Where is Kate?”
She shook her head listlessly. “That’s just what he asked. Alexander.” She stared at the bed, eyes stark. “Kenneth said ye’ll never find her.” Her brow crumpled. “Oh, God.” Bloodstained fingers hovered over her mouth. “I couldn’t stop it. I tried. Nothing can stop him.”
Broderick gripped her arms hard and forced her hands down. “What did he have planned for her? What did he say?”
“He—he said he waited for ye to love her. To consider her yours.” Her throat reflexively swallowed. Her lips flattened. “He wants ye to feel what it’s like to lose your greatest prize to a thief. To know she’s near and that ye cannot have her.”
Anguished rage turned the world black. Not Kate. Not his wee, bonnie wife.
The roaring in his head swallowed all reason. Black slowly became red.
Campbell joined them, speaking in his quiet rumble. He and Rannoch questioned Sabella and traded information with Munro. Distantly, Broderick listened. Munro had a theory—something about two ships leaving for Amsterdam the following day.
But he knew only one thought. He must find her. He must find Lockhart so he could find Kate. Without his light, there was only the black. The silence. The roar. And pain that was both everything and nothing at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kate couldn’t decide whether she was awake. Blackness surrounded her. The air smelled of liquor, ash, and wood. She was damp. Cold. Her head ached abominably. Her knees were folded up against her chest, restricting her breathing and turning her feet numb.
At first, she struggled. Scraped her elbows on the wood. Rapped her knuckles and forehead on the rounded walls and flat ceiling. It was tiny, her prison. She could scarcely breathe.
“Hellooo?” She gathered more air. “Is anyone there?”
Soon, she thrashed and pounded the wood. Solid. No give. She braced her knees on one side and her shoulders against the other and shoved with all her might. She strained and gritted and, very soon, sweated. No crack. No give.
“Blast.” She gathered another lungful. “Somebody!” She banged her fist on the wood above her. Harder. Both fists now. “Somebody help me!”
Silence. Blackness. Where was she?
Panic took hold, quickening her pulse. Frantically, she pounded away until her hands hurt too badly to continue.
Muddled from the fumes and the tightness, she fell back. “Ple
ase,” she whimpered, resting her forehead against her knees. Beyond the wood, she heard nothing. Not even wind.
How much air was in her tiny prison? Blast, she couldn’t see anything. The smell of alcohol and a faint hint of char made her sick. This must be … a cask?
She pressed the round interior again, wedged her hands against the top and pushed. Not even a squeak.
Huffing, she carefully scooted around, inching her fingers along the lower third of the cask. Somewhere, there should be … ah, yes. She found the bung. It was coated in something. Wax, perhaps. She tore off a glove and began digging. Soon, her fingers were sore, and she’d encountered something harder than wax. Cork, she thought.
Exhausted, dizzy, and sick, she rested for a moment.
Broderick would find her. He would, he would, he would. But if she ran out of air, she’d be dead by the time he arrived. She mustn’t die. She had a husband to love. Children to create. A novel to finish—or perhaps a play.
Fighting the queer sensation of spinning inside a black void, she redoubled her efforts to claw at the stoppered hole that might be her one good source of air. Long minutes later, a sob gathered in her chest. It was no use. Her fingernails were broken past the quicks. Her legs were cramping. She suspected she’d lost consciousness at least once, for she’d somehow drooled upon herself.
But she could not give up. Because Broderick would never give up on her. She knew that as well as she knew William Shakespeare was the greatest playwright ever to put pen to paper.
With her knuckles, she shoved at the cork. Again. Again. Desperate for any sign of give, she strained and seethed, repositioning her shoulder for a better, though much more painful, angle.
No give. In fact, it seemed the harder she pushed, the harder it became. With a shrieking cry that sounded pathetically puny, she covered her eyes and wept.
After a while, she drifted. She didn’t know how long. But she felt half-asleep when she heard the whisper. Pull instead of push, lass.
Her eyes popped open. Her heart skipped a beat. That might have been from the oxygen deprivation, but nevertheless, she felt a glimmer of hope. What if the bung had been corked from the inside? Pushing would only wedge it harder into the hole.